Complicated
by Is That Rhetorical
Summary: The real reason Alek took Deryn's confession all the wrong ways, and other introspective oneshots. T just in case.
1. Complicated

**Just another revelation ficlet, but I thought I'd give it something of a different spin. And bump up the number of fics in this section, because it's kind of depressing.**

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Furious.

Why was he furious? He shouldn't have been. Dylan - or whatever her real name was; she hadn't graced him with that knowledge - hadn't _really_ done anything wrong, from his non-military perspective that should have been so much more forgiving.

Was it because Dylan had kept it from him, even after he'd given away _everything_, every last one of his well guarded secrets? No, he understood. If he hadn't been such a horrid liar, he would have hidden _his_ herritage until the last too. Some things just didn't belong out in the open, even between friends.

Was it because he thought she didn't belong here, on this ship smack dab in the world of men? No, that was wrong too. Dylan's abilities, her personality, her love for the ship and for flying; those things didn't change just because he suddenly knew she was a girl. She'd been a girl the whole time, even when he'd thought she was a boy. And if that month spent with that strong willed girl - with _both_ of _those_ strong willed _girls_, he corrected himself - had taught him anything, it was that the world of men he'd thought placed women in the home didn't exist. The planet wasn't divided so neatly, just as between the Clankers and the Darwinists, into places for men and places for women. It was just the world.

Was it jealousy, then, that this girl was more of a man than he had ever been? No, that was something he'd admired about her, no matter her gender, and couldn't bring himself to feel bitter about, not when they'd first met, and not now.

No. It was because the most simple, pure experience with a boy his own age had turned out to be not so simple after all. That was what he'd loved about their friendship, that with Dylan, he could pretend he wasn't a prince, with real responsibility at far too young an age; pretend he'd grown up in a house and not a palace, and maybe in Britain, around beasties, rather than in Austria, around gears; pretend the guilt of his parents' death and an entire war didn't weigh down his mind; pretend to be just like his friend, without a care in the world it seemed.

And now, with those three little words, Dylan had taken all that comfort and simplicity out of his stay on the _Leviathan_, placed little hidden meaning in every previously innocent encounter between them, made him embarrassed to be in the same room with her, and made his breath catch whenever he caught a glimpse of her. She'd made everything so complicated.

Wasn't Prince Aleksander's existence complicated enough?


	2. Savior

**Due to an overwhelming response and lots of inspiration, I've decided to do one more (or lots more) little thing-a-ma-jig(s), this time from Deryn's perspective, decidedly accompanying the longer fic that I now have the guts to write. Thanks everyone!**

**Slightly inspired by both "Savior", by Christel Sundberg, and "Zombie" by the Cranberries. Both awesome songs, both really depressing, both fitting Deryn in so many ways. And O'Riordan even looks like her in the video!**

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Deryn was angry an afraid, two emotions she hated with a passion.

Angry, she didn't mind, even if she did hate the way it made her feel. Boys got angry, over little things, over strange things, over stupid things. Her fellow middies had been angry at each other constantly, so often it almost felt like back home, back as a girl. The thing about boys, though, was that they came right out and shouted at each other, rather than sipping their tea and making light conversation with little smiles, pretending they didn't want to rip each other's heads off. Alek had been angry with her when she'd told him, though it hadn't involved shouting and the next day everything seemed to be fixed between them, and at the same time horribly wrong. But she could deal with angry.

Afraid, on the other hand, wasn't something that boys had to worry about. Boys were never afraid. Not as far as they were concerned, anyway. She couldn't count how many times she'd caught Newkirk quaking in his boots because of the ship he barking served on. But he'd never admit to it, no matter how much evidence she had on him, because he was a boy, and boys didn't live up to being afraid. Alek was so obviously afraid for her, now that she was a girl, now that she was something that needed to be protected, needed to be taken care of, which was why she was so barking angry in the first place.

Well, maybe not in the first place. The first place was that she hadn't signed up for this. This cold, this noise, this stench, this stiffness, this horror, all incredibly intrusive and penetrating: The front lines. She'd made a point, in fact, of not signing up for it. The air force might have been the home of what she loved, but it was also, conveniently, the farthest thing in the war from the trenches, the new and terrifying way to kill people. And yet, somehow, there she was, fighting and hiding amid Japanese soldiers and Japanese fabs, a gun half assembled in her lap, and Alek beside her.

When he'd shown up in the trench next to her, she'd wanted to scream at him. "What in blazes are you doing here, you bloody sod, you know the army won't give you a gun to defend yourself, you're a barking Clanker, supposed to be on _their side_, or had you forgotten you ninny, I can't believe you'd be so stupid, I don't need you here, I can take care of myself, been taking care of myself, why do you have to be such a chivalrous bum-rag trying to protect me, what a load of clart you'll just be in the way, what if you get barking shot again with a bloody machine gun, you will be now that I've said that God why can't you just sneak back so you won't get yourself killed I'd die if you got yourself killed just please go."

Instead, she'd said, "You're daft," and left it at that.

All she was glad for, if she could be glad for anything, was that he didn't accompany the charges. That he didn't see the look that must have been on her face as she took aim at boys their age, who must have sneaked in like her, who looked so much like him. That he never saw her as the nervous wreck she was as she tried to convince herself that he was safe: the walkers hadn't gotten past their Japanese fabs; the German soldiers had been too busy shooting at them to point their guns beyond their lines, at the trenches; Alek hadn't taken to being more of a dummkopf than he was naturally and had bloody well stayed under cover. That he didn't know how her heart only truly stopped racing when he crossed the distance to their new claim with the officers and she confirmed that the horrible visions she had of shooting him instead of a young German soldier had been all in her head. That he never saw how much the battles really shook her, just the shadows.

Of course, that meant that whenever she made a face that wasn't a silly smile - and even now sometimes when she did smile - was taken for fear, for weakness, for him needing to be there for her, as her protector from both the bullets racing toward her and the bullets she was putting in the bodies of other human beings. She hated it.

If she were still Dylan - still _really_ Dylan - he wouldn't feel the need to protect her from anything. _Dylan_ was a boy. _Dylan_ was an airman. _Dylan_ could be counted on to keep his barking head. _Dylan_ could deal with it.

But _Deryn_ wasn't. _Deryn_ couldn't. And she was barking sick of it.

So when the order to charge came down the line, she snapped her gun together with practiced, efficient movements - blisters, that made her feel like a soldier; what middie was so barking good with a firearm? - ignored Alek's concerned whisper, and spit onto the bloodied ground for good measure. I don't need you to save me, she thought fiercely, and launched herself over the top of the trench.


	3. Transfix

**So I lied again. These are turning out to just be whatever, starting now, with the random words of inspiration technique! **

**Not the most original thing I've ever done, but it's new years eve, so I figured I should probably put out a little something before 2011. At least there isn't enough fanfiction here for it to be called tired yet. **

**Thank you everyone who have convinced me that things like this are needed and make people's day: a little hogmanay for you in particular. :)**

**Word: Transfix**

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Alek stood, completely still but for shaking. The part of his mind that had grown so much since June 28th told him not to worry, told him he had nothing to do with this awful scene. But he was still a child, really, and he was doing the thing that all children did when something went wrong.

Ignoring all the evidence that pointed to adults being stupid and blaming himself.

It was stupid, his maturity screamed. He didn't know one of the seven hundred and eighteen men whose bodies were beginning to decay without their spirits, or any of the 1839 decaying with them. He hadn't fired a singe shot, or thrown a single grenade, or even directed a walker or beastie toward the other line. He'd barely even been there at all, just a presence on the fringe, kept safe as a prisoner of the triumphant British and Japanese. He couldn't be responsible, not in the least.

But the child begged to differ. Who's assassinations had caused the war? His Imperial and Royal Highness and Her Highness. Franz and Sophie. _Vater und Mutter_. And what was the real reason those two had been picked by the Germans as those to start the war? Alek, Alek, Alek. So who was really responsible for those wounds, every last one?

Alek, Alek, Alek...

"...Alek?"

A pale face with fine features came into his vision, blocking from his sight the ravaged Chinese no-man's land and the bodies that covered it. Dylan took one look at Alek's face and seemed to read his mind, because he scowled and said, "You _dummkopf_," and hit him lightly over the head before half dragging him away from the field.

And somehow, those two words convinced him so much more than any long winded argument sprung from his own head.

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**The losses in here are the real figures from the Siege of Tsingtao (I'm sticking to my guns on this theory!), both sides included in the final numbers.**

**...Review? ...Please?**


	4. Sweeten

**Do I need to write an introduction? Please say no.**

**Realizing that I've never actually written a disclaimer for this place: I'm not Scott Westerfeld. Otherwise, why would I be writing 500 or so words at a time instead of working on Goliath, I ask you?  
**

**Word: Sweeten (as in the temper)**

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Deryn Sharp had always lived up to her name: flying came naturally to her, and she had a wicked temper. Especially if you were to ask Jaspert, who was always on the receiving end of her fiery tongue, as she'd be punished in an instant if she blew up at her mum or aunties.

Being on the _Leviathan_ was particularly liberating in that regard, where among her fellow midshipmen it was customary to be short with the others, so long as it didn't extend into interaction with the officers. She was allowed to shout at, trip, hit, and prank any boy who insulted her or just rubbed her the wrong way without reprimand - she was expected to, even, lest she be taken for a nancy boy and be the laughing stock among the middies forever more.

Then, in a single day, most of her targets were gone, replaced by a single, constant source of frustration that was worse than an officer: Dr. Nora Darwin Barlow, who got to boss Deryn about like she was a common cabin boy, interfere with her duties as an almost officer, and have her do barking _chores_. Just for being a boffin and enough of a clever-boots to find something to hold over her head, even if it did happen to be the wrong something. It infuriated her to no end, so took her anger out on Newkirk, which was almost too easy.

His princeliness Alek had, for all of two days, also been subject to her anger before the mere sight of him began to make her emotions go barmy. She _meant_ to treat him like she did Newkirk, the way a middy would treat another boy, but it never seemed to work. No matter how much she _should_ have wanted to punch him silly, the infuriating things he did just made her want to grin like a loon, so she settled for hitting him once or twice - which still made him wince, the sissy - to convince him of her airman's swagger.

After fifteen years, it was that ninny who managed to cool her temper. Barking bloody princes.

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**So I took some liberties with this one, but not really. I went through the books to check before I wrote this, and if you think about it, Deryn really _does_ have a temper (see particularly, "You could have fallen slower!"). And since it wouldn't have been very introspective to write about sweets or something equally materialistic, I stretched it a bit.  
**


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